


A figure less than Greek

by Margot_Lescargot



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Abject Silliness, Bernini’s Ganges, Humour, M/M, Minor spoiler for False Value, POV Peter Grant (Rivers of London), Post FV, Seawoll poses for Foxglove, established Seagale, not much more to say really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26676793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margot_Lescargot/pseuds/Margot_Lescargot
Summary: There are some things a young man does not want to think about.Seawoll poses for Foxglove.  Peter stumbles across them.
Relationships: Thomas Nightingale/Alexander Seawoll
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19
Collections: Burdens of Responsibility





	A figure less than Greek

The twins had been playing relay all night in a race to see who could wail the loudest and longest, one thoughtfully picking up the baton when the other took a well-earned breather. I’d been sleep-deprived before – what junior copper hasn’t – but it was nothing to what two teething six-month-olds were capable of inflicting. 

I’d asked Bev once whether, given their heritage, they’d arrive, well, fully-formed, already with teeth and a full head of hair. But she’d just shrugged.

So what with one thing and another, including only having managed one cup of coffee so far that morning, I wasn’t sure, at first, if what I was seeing was what I actually _was_ seeing.

But when I heard an exasperated ‘Oh joy’ followed by a familiarly belligerent rumble - this time: ‘That bloody door’s supposed to be locked!’ - I realised that my eyes did not deceive me, and I wasn’t in the grip of some insomniac fever-dream - or some especially bizarre glamour. I did in fact gaze upon the semi-recumbent form of one Alexander Seawoll, Detective Chief Inspector of the Metropolitan Police Service, scourge of Belgravia nick, and – in a twist even I hadn’t seen coming – my governor’s current significant other.

Guleed swears she once saw him being nice to someone, and even, on a separate occasion, speaking in a tone of voice not normally suited to the parade ground. I had no reason not to believe her. But I still had to see the evidence for myself.

I’d been on my way to meet Sahra when I'd called in to the Folly, as it goes. We’d been asked to check out a possible grimoire and I could’ve sworn we’d covered something similar on Tinker. In my addled state, though, I couldn’t be sure and needed to check in the filing cabinets. It didn’t hurt, of course, that the Folly was also a place where, thanks to Molly, the coffee was strong, reliable and on tap.

I’d just got to the top of the first flight of stairs when I’d spotted Molly - bearing a tray with a coffee pot and tiny croissants on it, Toby yapping excitedly round her ankles – knocking on the door of the reading room and evidently waiting to be allowed in. Which was weird.

After a moment, she slid into the room, keeping Toby out, who, distracted, spotted me and was giving me the welcome of long-lost friend to annoying small dogs everywhere, when Molly came out of the room again, trayless, closing the door behind her.

She looked over and gave me an inscrutable smile - which was no less unnerving than any of her other ones - and began to glide back down the stairs towards the kitchen. She made a harsh ‘hsst’ sound without turning and Toby immediately ceased his adoration-of-the-joyfully-reunited-master routine, and trotted obediently after her. I didn’t blame him. He knew which side his bread was buttered.

Which had left me staring at the closed door of the reading room. Bev always says I’m too nosy for my own good. This time, I’d have to agree with her. 

But, I mean. I had to find out what was going on, didn’t I? 

Which meant that twenty seconds later I was standing – transfixed - in the doorway, attempting, in my exhausted state, to take in what my brain was trying to report was before me. 

Seawoll had been reclining, artistically – there was no other word for it – on some couch or other - and was that an _oar_ he was holding? - but he sat up sharply as he clocked my presence.

Foxglove, attired in one of her artist’s smocks, had been concentrating on the canvas in front of her, but now looked up with an irritated hiss at the distraction.

I stayed where I was, trying to parse the sight of Seawoll. Large as life, and at least twice as natural. I had literally no idea what to say. 

I waited for a cue from someone else

‘I don’t suppose I need to spell out what’s going on here?’ said Seawoll eventually.

Good. Something I could work with.

‘Foxglove is… sketching you?’ I offered weakly.

‘That’s right, lad,’ he regarded me wryly. ‘All those years studying to make detective weren’t wasted I see.’ 

Which was a bit unfair, I thought, because it’s not every day you stumble across one of your bosses semi-naked - _please God,_ I prayed _, let it be only semi-naked_ – and affecting the air of something more usually found on the east pediment of the Parthenon.

‘But I think,’ he continued, ‘that might be our lot for today, Foxglove.’ He sighed and I realised with horror that he was about to stand up.

Seawoll’s not a short man by any means, and I started to worry that I was going to get a serious crick in my neck by staring at his face and his face only.

(Back in the day, before we were an item – as the young people of today have never said (I really needed some coffee) – Bev used to test my resolve every so often by jumping naked out of nearby watercourses. And never, never in any of those times, had I struggled as valiantly as I did now not to let my eyes drift downwards.) 

He had what I assumed was a rogue bed sheet draped artfully over one shoulder, which he cast aside as he stood. I think I caught a glimpse of a kind of loin cloth or something – something at least– but there was obviously _no way_ I was going to check.

I had to admire him, though. He obviously didn’t give a toss about being caught in the near-buff by a junior officer. I guess that’s what a few decades of command and self-assurance will get you. Or maybe it was a northern thing. Who knew? Foxglove, on the other hand, had started cleaning her brushes in a markedly annoyed manner.

Seawoll raised an eyebrow, evidently expecting me to speak.

‘I, er, I came to pick up some notes, and I, um-‘ Inspiration struck. ‘Is my governor here?’

‘Thomas?’ Seawoll sounded incredulous. ‘No of course he’s not fucking here. Do you think I’d be sitting here like this,’ and he gave what I considered to be an entirely unnecessary gesture downwards at himself, ‘if your boss was in the building?’

This was obviously an extremely unfair question in the circumstances, so I wisely chose to ignore it. 

But otherwise I couldn’t help myself. ‘Then why are you…?’

‘What? Posing for Foxglove?’ Seawoll looked about and started to put on his clothes, which were folded neatly on a nearby chair.

He pulled on a shirt and started to button it. At least, that’s what I assume he was doing. I didn’t let my gaze stray below his chin.

He shrugged. ‘Because she asked me. She’s been asking for a while. Said she had something particular in mind.’ He bobbed out of my eyeline briefly, which must have meant he was putting on his trousers. Really, if this was going to be a regular thing, I was going to suggest that Foxglove get hold of a screen for her models. I’d lay money there was one knocking around in one of the attics somewhere.

‘Something particular?’ I echoed. That still didn’t seem likely. Not as a reason to strip down to his smalls anyway. 

‘So Foxglove asked you,’ I persevered. ‘To pose with no clothes on. And you said yes?’ Lack of sleep and caffeine were now clearly having an effect on my inhibitions. And my deathwish.

He started to look ever so slightly shifty, and I heard Foxglove make a small sound of amusement behind him. ‘Something like that.’

‘Something like that?’ I said, before I could stop myself.

He sighed. 'If I tell you, will you piss off again?'

I nodded. 

‘Ok, fine.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I agreed to sit for Foxglove in exchange for something else she’d drawn.' He raised his eyebrows. 'Good enough?’

I was puzzled. ‘You want one of her other drawings? But who of… ? Oh,’ the penny dropped. ‘Riiiight.’

‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘So, if there’s nothing else..’ He gestured towards the door.

‘No, sure. But which one?’ There it was again. The curse of being too bloody nosy. ‘One of the pencil sketches?’

It was his turn to nod.

‘Right, right. Yeah, Foxglove showed me those. They’re good. So is it the one where he looks like he’s trying to work out the last clue of the crossword or the one with the vaguely come hither expression-’ came out of my mouth before my brain had worked out what I was actually saying. I stopped, aghast.

He glared at me. ‘The second one,’ he said shortly while I waited for the ground to swallow me up. 

Fuck! Why had I opened _that_ particular box? It was – like the idea of my parents having sex – something I tried very, _very_ hard not to think about. And the fact that some traitorous part of my brain was even now considering which scenario was worse was probably going to set my therapy back months. 

Seawoll was thankfully now fully dressed and slipping on his shoes. He rightly ignored me and stepped over to examine Foxglove’s work. ‘Actually, that’s very good,’ he said, and she smiled widely, showing far too many teeth.

Automatically, I started to edge around the canvas myself before he growled ‘Get out of it!’ I was happy to oblige. Aside from morbid fascination, I had no real desire to see Seawoll in full classical mode. 

I’d seen enough for one day.

I started backing out of the door. About five minutes later than I probably should have done, but such is life. As I turned to leave, Seawoll stopped me with a slightly more conciliatory ‘I trust I can count on your discretion, Peter?’ and for the first time that morning my brain started firing properly.

I turned back slowly. ‘What’s it worth?’ I asked.

He rolled his eyes. ‘What do you want?’

I gave the patented cheeky-bugger Peter Grant grin, beloved of aunties and senior officers everywhere. ‘I’ll think of something.’

And if I wasn’t _actually_ whistling as I strolled to the room I used as an office, it was a close-run thing.

**Author's Note:**

> My poor Seawoll. First [the dick pics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23203324) and now this.
> 
> (And if anyone is interested in the pose that Foxglove has persuaded Seawoll to adopt, a quick google of Bernini fountain Rome Ganges should get you there.)
> 
> Title taken from “My Funny Valentine”.


End file.
